Memories and Darkness
by Bob J Montonelli
Summary: A fiction written for Dark City, encouraged by my friends. A slash between Murdoch and Schreber. You don't like it, you don't read it.


Time was passing, for the first time in many long--years, was  
it? The doctor--the man--did not know. He had not seen the  
sun since he had forgotten things, and that was--well, long  
ago certainly. But now days passed with great regularity.  
Twenty-four hours to each. Sunlight, dripping like hot  
caramel from a child's ice cream cone, dappled the inside of  
his lonesome apartment. It was setting, slowly passing beyond  
the sight of the flat-world's denizens. Another night, but  
this one not endless. But lonely--so lonely. Many times in  
the morning he would come to his office and read the name on  
the door, and see the endless, empty openness of the letters,  
fragile and vulnerable. No one would speak to the limping,  
half-blind man with the hiss to his voice and scrabbling,  
bird-like hands. His memories--*his* memories--soured in  
their taste when he recalled the strangers and their brutal  
torture. No hands but those silent and invisible, prying his  
skull apart from the inside, seeing what made him tick.  
Suffering in mute misery, stunned out of screaming by their  
experiements. But that Murdoch man...the curiousity, his  
evolution beyond human ability. His familiarly confused,  
upset blue eyes. Desperation and fear in the line of his  
face, and the determination to fight.  
  
No. Thoughts and memories silenced with a stroke. Pain  
lanced him and he focused into it, used to the seizing of  
muscles from his wounds. Nothing, no one could take the pain  
away.  
  
A knock at the door and, wincing, he pulled himself up and  
through the cool dark of just-twilight. Still uncertain,  
even after many weeks.  
  
"Yes?" He called. "Who's there?"  
  
"It's me, Dr. Schreber. John."  
  
Breath caught in his through, pain subsiding to a throb as  
blood rushed elsewhere; his face, his--nevermind that, he  
thought, yanking the latches quickly, shakily as always. As  
the door opened, he backed from John's bustling, intense  
figure.  
  
"You are, I trust, here for a reason?" He asked, closing the  
door again.  
  
John turned. "To talk." He shrugged reasonably.  
  
"Hm." The doctor limped back to the sagging chairs in his  
living room. "What about? Oh, do sit...I get precious few  
visitors." Not entirely true--he got no visitors.  
  
Murdoch flopped into a chair, taking up more space than  
Schreber had thought possible. He himself sat down carefully,  
mindful of his twisted leg.  
  
"Things didn't work out with me and Em--Anna, you know."  
  
"No, I--didn't know."  
  
"Her memories were too different." He shook his head. "And  
I couldn't forget she'd been someone else."  
  
"I can understand your difficulties."  
  
"She met someone else, and we...broke up, I guess."  
  
"Certainly a...hard thing to...eh...deal with."  
  
Murdoch looked at him quite suddenly, and then began to  
laugh.  
  
"What?"  
  
"You speak so fast--always so nervous. Are you still afraid  
they'll come after you? It's been weeks, Dr. Schreber.  
They're dead."  
  
"Dead perhaps in reality...but in memories live many demons."  
  
"Memories." He snorted. "And who are you to talk about  
memories."  
  
Schreber looked away. "I do have them. Not  
perhaps...the...ones I'd wish...but I do. I remember  
their...tortures, for one. Why, do you suspect, my eye...is  
mangled...and my...speech slurred, Mr. Murdoch?"  
  
"Sorry. Didn't mean to offend you."  
  
"Hm. There are harder ways of doing so, John."  
  
"You still live alone? Haven't found a girl?"  
  
"I'm afraid...such a thing, is not my...style."  
  
"A loner?" John arched an eyebrow.  
  
"Perhaps destined to be. I do not know."  
  
"You're confusing me, doctor."  
  
Schreber lowered his head, feeling a blush come to his face.  
He could not say the words that hurt more than his crippling  
wounds. No, he could not marry, simply because fate--whatever  
controlled fate in this world--had not give him eyes that  
sought females. As a psychiatrist, he was vaguely appalled by  
his nature--didn't all books state that the opposite genders  
of a species seeking each other out to mate was the nature of  
sexual behavior, no more, no less?  
  
"Yes, yes...of course I...apologize, Mr. Murdoch."  
  
"Please, call me John. It makes us seem more like friends,  
and less like the Strangers set us up to be."  
  
"Very well, John." He smiled, a small, shy smile. Perhaps  
in memories he no longer had, it had charmed many girls, many  
boys. He did not know.  
  
"You know, I didn't get to thank you."  
  
"What for?"  
  
"For helping me, Dr. Schreber."  
  
"Daniel, please. Call me Daniel." No one ever does, he  
thought, you'd be the first.  
  
"Thank you, Daniel."  
  
God, how that hurt. Why did that hurt so much? Why did one  
man's words tear him to pieces like this? *because,* a mean  
little voice in him said, *no one says these things to you.  
you betrayed your own kind. you feel guilt, because you do  
not deserve this. you have a weak heart, Schreber.* He  
stifled an anxious sob at the voice.  
  
"Are you all right?" John's worried voice, a hand on his  
arm.  
  
"Yes, yes...just surprised. I am...not a man of...many  
accquaintences. You are...most kind."  
  
John shrugged. "You helped me. Wish I could help you too."  
  
Schreber laughed--a pained and bitter sound. "I do not think  
you could." He rose and limped to the window, looking out the  
the cityscape and the stars beyond. He started at a touch on  
his shoulder--John had followed him.  
  
"You know, for someone who's supposed to talk with people all  
day, you seem pretty lonely."  
  
"I suppose...I am."  
  
The hand remained, then slowly, gently, rubbed his shoulder.  
  
"What did they do to you? The strangers?"  
  
"Tortured me. Experimented. Tested human strength. I...am  
not...a strong man."  
  
An arm, seeing no resistence, snaked its way around his  
shoulder, and John's breath was very warm and very close on  
his neck.  
  
"I take it they found that out pretty quick."  
  
"No...actually it was...a long process."  
  
"Their experiements...is that why you limp?"  
  
"Yes. There was...much nerve damage...you see." His breaths  
were short and erratic. He gripped the windowsill  
white-knuckled. He was trying hard not to shake, but it kept  
coming back. The blue-black darkness, the pull of invisible  
chains at his bones and muscles, screaming, pleading for  
mercy. He whimpered softly, twitched.  
"Please...John...I...please, I am...afraid..." He turned,  
burying his face into the warm, soft blackness of the other  
man's chest, listening to the solid, human heartbeat, letting  
it calm him. Strong arms slid around his battered, twisted  
back. He felt a whisper of breath on his scalp, tousling his  
hair as John spoke.  
  
"Easy, easy. It's ok. I'll stay, I promise." The faintest  
touch of a kiss.  
  
"We...should not be...doing this, you think?" Such  
gentleness had shocked him into only vague coherency.  
  
"Why?" His light, laughing voice, brilliant as the sun  
through stormclouds. "You're lonely as hell--any idiot could  
tell that. And me? I just got dumped by the girl who I  
thought was my wife. Who *was* my wife. Whenever that was."  
  
He had to smile. Just a little. Such merriment against the  
black backdrop of the city charmed him. So this was the man  
John Murdoch was, deep beyond his memories--or lack thereof.  
He looked up, the position straining his neck, to look into  
warm, laughing blue eyes. In one blindingly sudden motion, he  
found himself pulled up, his lips pressed against those of  
his--patient? friend?--and the shock ripped through exhausted  
nerves used to pain and fire. But this was different.  
Vibrant and chilling but warm at the same time. He tasted  
coffee, heavy and black, on the other man's lips, felt the  
sandpapery scritch of stubble on his cheek. They broke apart  
with the same suddenness, and John looked down, flushed with a  
sort of half-embarrassment.  
  
"Sorry. Should've asked." It was a numb statement, stupid  
and hollow-sounding in the aftermath.  
  
Schreber blinked. His glasses were slightly fogged, and he  
took them off, rubbing them on a kerchief in a nervous  
gesture.  
"No, no...it was...I...please. Again." It was the best he  
could manage. He damned well wanted it. If such a fleeting  
touch could be so pleasurable, what of others.  
Murdoch obliged with his natural gusto. His good knee  
weakened, his bad one buckled and he slipped forward, most of  
his weight landing on Murdoch who, unprepared, fell backward.  
With an ungraceful thump, they landed on the hardwood floor.  
"Emm..." Schreber struggled slightly. He couldn't move very  
well, with his leg pulled out straight and stiff. Murdoch  
didn't seem to want to move, one hand trapped between the two  
of them, fingers rubbing slightly just above his navel. He  
thought he might want to move, before things got too  
complicated.  
*they already are too complicated, Schreber. deal with it*  
*shut up. just shut up.*  
"Huh? What did I say?"  
*did I say that out loud?* "Hm? Oh, uhh...nothing.  
Just...oh, this is...most awkward..."  
Murdoch responded by kissing him again, and continuing to  
knead at his belly.  
Carefully, not a little nervous, Schreber kissed him back,  
pressing forward. He felt John undoing the buttons of his  
vest, then his shirt, running his fingers across his bare  
skin. He whimpered softly. *please...don't let him go  
further...I can't explain the scars, not now...* Hands  
slipped up his chest, touched the rumpled skin. Stopped.  
"What...what the hell happened to you?" John hissed in  
horrified shock.  
"I told you. The strangers."  
"Turn over." He said, a little sharply. "Please." Softer.  
  
"John...believe me, you do not want...to see..."  
"Please. It's ok. Trust me." Arms still around his  
back--supporting him, keeping the weight off his damaged  
spine, Murdoch rolled over so he was balanced astride the  
doctor. Schreber was panting slightly, his heart beating like  
a frightened rabbit. Before the doctor could protest, John  
pulled open his vest and shirt, sliding it out of his belt and  
down off his shoulders.  
A sharp gasp, edged with something between fear and pity.  
"Oh, Daniel...oh my god..." John kissed his neck gently,  
stroking the old scars.  
A deep, canyon-like gash marred his right shoulder, rippling  
down to where it melted with a mountainous terrain of burn  
scarring. Fine, parallel lines rippling like a child's  
careful ruler-traces over his chest. His right nipple blended  
pinkly with the mass of scar tissue. Fine, blonde hair  
stopped at the midline of his torso, fried out of their  
follicles.  
"Fire...John, they were fascinated with...fire."  
"C'mere...it's ok..." John licked the tears away from his  
cheeks. "It's ok, Danny..."  
"D...Danny?"  
He chuckled softly against his neck. "Whatever."  
This time it was Schreber who pulled Murdoch into a kiss, and  
it was deep and warm and tasted of sweat and again, coffee.  
Broad, heavy hands rubbed up his chest, brushed against his  
nipples and Schreber gasped.  
"Didn't know if you'd like that...never fucked a guy  
before..."  
"Shouldn't...be a...problem. Just guess."  
"O--"  
A strange, peculiar bouncing. Whacked into flesh, flesh into  
wall. What the hell...  
"Oww."  
"Sorry."  
"This...tuning of...yours is...occasionally...dangerous." He  
gasped out.  
"Not *that* dangerous."  
"That hurt, John." He smiled amusedly. John kissed him  
again, laughing.  
"Sorry. Sorry, Daniel." Those rough and tumble hands  
stroked his back, rubbed away the fearful knots there.  
"This is...perhaps...not the...best locale."  
"Hold on to me."  
Schreber wrapped his arms around the other man, linking them.  
He nuzzled John's chest, wishing absently that it was minus a  
layer or two of clothing. He felt a strange, unpleasantly  
familiar twinge along his nerves.  
"Oh. You have...been developing...your talent."  
"It's good for some things. Fun." John gave him a playful  
lick along his jaw.  
They floated over to the bedroom, courtesy of Murdoch.  
Schreber clung to him perhaps a little more tightly than was  
neccesary, not quite releasing until he was very, very certain  
they were back on the ground.  
"The Strangers...they used to...do that. Mr. Book, hung me  
upside down above...the shaft down...it always...frightened  
me."  
"I shouldn't have done that then...I'm sorry..." He trailed  
kisses gently down his neck. Schreber shivered, whimpering in  
blinding pleasure. He had forgotten--or had he never  
known--love such as this, warm and desperate and sweaty. It  
was cold among the Strangers, and stank of death and frozen  
metal.  
//Dark. Cold. Tied and screaming and begging.  
"Please...please stop...leave me alone...I know nothing,  
stop...stop...oh god stop!"  
Pleading for mercy from silent beings for whom love was an  
alien concept.  
Alien concepts. Different physiology, different brains.  
Begging and pleading. Screaming.  
They won't let me go. No, not the fire again,  
please...please, not the fire....please no, no., no...//  
"Daniel! Daniel, are you ok?"  
"Fine...I...just memories."  
"It's ok..." Another kiss. "Come on...lie down...maybe I  
can make them go away." He cracked a lopsided smile. Again,  
a warm, soft, luscious kiss. Like chocolate only sweeter. He  
stepped back, feeling his bed against his legs, and fell  
backward, bouncing against the mattress, the springs  
protesting under a double load that it was not used to.  
Murdoch sat up, unbuttoning his shirt and tossing it into a  
dark corner. He stripped his undershirt off.  
"Are you scared?" He asked, his breath coming hard.  
"Certainly."  
"At least you're being honest." Another laughing kiss, as he  
was held and stripped of his shirt. "You're beautiful."  
"You talk of...honesty..."  
"I am being honest," he said, face buried in the  
psychiatrist's neck. "You're beautiful. I don't care what  
the fuck the Strangers did to you." He sucked hard, bit,  
leaving a deep purple mark. He could feel the other man  
shake. "Don't be afraid."  
"I'm not...afraid...."  
*yes you are you're terrified aren't you, so don't say you're  
not...those nightmares come and you'll never wake up you'll  
scream until you rip your lungs out so don't say you're not  
afraid.*  
"Shhh..." Kisses quieting the terrible words of a mind  
betraying everything including himself. Desperate hands that  
worked down his chest, his poor, hideous, mangled chest,  
fiddling with buttons and zippers, whimpers and gasps but from  
who?  
*just like them just like them isn't it...what makes humans  
tick? what made you what you were? nevermind asking, just  
take what they want...*  
*shut up. shut up, damn you.*  
"Please..." Coming out as a harrowed, pained rasp.  
//An animal, a frightened man, run to ground in endless black  
warrens, backing up, pleading...  
When he could run.  
When was that?  
"You must not run from us, Doctor."  
Please, no, no, please don't--//  
Hands rasping, warmth, pleasure rappelling up and down his  
spine like a madcap elevator.  
//--no, stop...  
Tuning. Pulling spine three inches too short, bones  
cracking, black boots kicking him in the back, slammed into  
--  
--darkness, black, hurt, please help me...  
I must run. I can't...oh, god...oh god my leg...my eye....  
"You, Doctor, are a foolish man."  
Excruciating pain, a needle driving through his skull--a  
moment not, agonizing...//  
Oh god, that feels good...  
"Ahh--urrr...mmmm." Past coherency, certainly.  
Kisses dancing down his chest. "It's ok. Stay still."  
Ecstasy that exploded into a thousand stars more brilliant  
than the sun, blinding him.  
"John--!"  
"Shh..." The vibrations alone making him arch his back,  
which further agonised him, but against the backdrop of such  
caring, gentle pleasure it was nothing. "...love you..." His  
out, his cock in the way, didn't care, didn't give a damn but  
don't stop...  
"Love you..."  
//Echoing against his brain.  
"We must punish the disobedient."  
No, please, I beg of you...  
Nerves that didn't word, pain bordering on deadly silence.//  
  
Blackness. Dark stars on a white field, blood flushing  
through his brain. A vague sound, John spitting on the floor,  
gasping. A warm kiss, salty taste, familiar in a decimated  
corner of his brain, silent nerves making their voices known,  
pleasure vibrant. John made a blanket appear on top of them,  
soft and warm.  
"My clothes..."  
A sheepish smile. "Got rid of them. I think they're on the  
floor. Or somewhere."  
He smiled, a little, nuzzled his lover. It felt familiar,  
it felt...it felt right.  
"You said...John...you loved me..."  
"Talk of honesty, Daniel. Talk of honesty."  
*good.*  
"Daniel?"  
He was asleep. Peaceful, and smiling. 


End file.
